Tapping handily opens the mind
to dwell longingly on expansive finds:
vistas beyond Dublin that partially span
the glittering jewel of Ireland:
necklaces of roads decorate emerald hills
and afford expectations generously fulfilled
at Ross Lare Harbor; paying sentimental tolls;
chatting up relatives for stories quite old;
musing before simple graveyard stones
to sift fading fragments; life histories unfold
where the bones of our departed repose.

Our wheels trace the coastline to the south
along the harbor's smiling mouth,
indulging the eyes and memory for a sweep
of boats and piers-then a landward leap
through farmlands with springtime furrows;
booking bed-and-breakfast homes to burrow
beneath thick quilts; slumber under the spell of lullabies,
poetry and winds brushing hills that breath Eire's stories.

Before Shannon and sadly jetting home
it's imperative to quaff the foam
of Guinness and toss darts at friendly pubs,
the ubiquitous conviviality hubs
where friendly people sing and play,
and on Sunday attend churches to pray;
I join again in worship where Irish brogues pervade
and level the lens at yellow gorse overlaid
on crumbling castle walls and stone fences:
delicious eye candy to sweeten the senses.

Capturing thatch-topped houses; horses, sleek
at grazing and the hubbub and ruddy cheeks
of children with blue eyes; then taking the fork
in the road for a side trip to Cork--
a town blessed with bountiful grace--
to buss the Blarney Stone's tall cool face.